


you're gonna sing the words wrong

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Lieutenant Duckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:09:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones is a rising star in Misthaven's navy, and his latest promotion brings the kind of social opportunities that he never could have dreamt of when he was just an orphan boy, alone but for his brother--and the princess who made him her friend.</p>
<p>Emma couldn't be more proud of her childhood companion, and wants him to find all the happiness he deserves.  </p>
<p>Even if letting him go will surely break her heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're gonna sing the words wrong

The epaulettes rest on a satin cushion, gleaming gold against the royal blue fabric. Emma stops short of touching the braided fringe; she traces the air above the metal starbursts with her fingers, faltering when she nears the royal naval crest--the anchor backed by a rose.

"If you smudge those, you're going to have to polish them," she hears from behind her, and she snatches her hand back, as if she'd been caught once again with her hand in a cookie jar.

But she's no longer a naughty girl of twelve, instead twice that age and the crown princess, so she squares her shoulders and tosses her head back as she turns to face her father. 

"I wasn't touching them, just looking," she says. Her voice comes out smaller than she intended, though, turning her confident assertion into something more like a child's admission of imminent guilt.

Her father stops in front of her, a faint frown wrinkling his brow. "These men and women defend our kingdom with their lives, Emma," he says, nodding to the rank insignia waiting on his desk. "As rulers, we owe them the same respect that they show to us."

"You do know I've heard the speech before, right?" She tries to smile, but it feels wrong and awkward, and she lets herself lapse into a sigh. "I know all that, Dad." She meets his eyes, setting her hand on his forearm. "And I believe it. I _do_."

He nods, slowly, studying her face. "Then what has you so flustered?" he asks, covering her hand with his own. "Since wanting to hear a speech about duty is apparently _not_ the reason you're hiding out in my office."

"I'm not--" she starts, but he's already shaking his head.

She turns to look back down at the desk, and her father lets her free her hand, though he tucks her against his side. It makes her feel very young, and yet she can't bring herself to give up the comfort she finds there. "When you make captain, everything is suddenly different, isn't it?" she says quietly. "Not just having more responsibility, but rising in station, in society, all those new opportunities..." She lets herself lean a little heavier into her father's side. "That has to change a person."

She can feel him staring at her, but she doesn't meet his eyes. "The good ones only change their clothes, Emma," he says finally, in a way that makes her think he knows precisely who she has in mind. When she doesn't answer, he gives her a squeeze, and the movement makes his formal fur mantle brush against her neck. "What's inside them was there all along, just waiting for a chance to shine."

She flicks at the mantle's fringe with her fingers. "Like a shepherd finding himself becoming a prince?" she asks, and his gaze turns canny as he looks at her.

"You really think I'm going to fall for that?" He draws away, turning to set his hands on her shoulders. "You know that story, too, honey, so there's no need for me to keep you late retelling it." She lets him turn her so that she's facing the door, and braces herself for the tiny push he gives her. "Now, go. If you're not ready in time, your mother's going to be disappointed in both of us, and frankly, I'd rather fight off another band of trolls."

"I'm going." She glances back over her shoulder as she crosses the rug. "Don't worry, Dad. I'll save you from Mom's terrible wrath," she says, and his warm laugh ushers her out the door.

But by the time she returns to her rooms, her stomach has tied itself into so many knots that she actually welcomes the corset.

That ache, at least, has an end in sight.

* * *

He marches into the great hall with the other naval officers, all of them spit-shined and polished to within an inch of their lives, their feet falling into step as seamlessly as would the most practiced army's.

It wouldn't do to be outshone by their landlubbing counterparts on the other side of the hall, after all.

They take their places along the western edge of the dais, waiting for the queen to call them each forward, and Killian keeps his eyes locked on the middle distance. Today, of all days, he will maintain his discipline at all costs, even with the princess moving at the edge of his vision.

The royal family has always emphasized _family_ , sharing their ceremonial duties and demonstrating their unity as they rule the kingdom. Emma's been the one to adorn the newly promoted officers with their badges of rank since she was old enough to manage the fastenings. He can see her from the corner of his eye, a hazy crimson mirage trying to draw him out of his stance at parade rest, but on a day this important, he won't let himself be distracted.

His name is called, and he kneels before the queen, bowing his head not just out of good form, but with the deepest respect.

"Killian Jones, for services rendered to the realm, you are hereby promoted to the rank of captain, with all the rights and privileges appertaining thereunto," Queen Snow says, and he raises his head in time to lose sight of everything but the red dress of the princess.

He keeps himself still as she unbuttons his right shoulderboard and draws it from the strap. She follows suit with his left, then takes an epaulette from Prince David and affixes it to his shoulder.

Uncharacteristically, it takes her a few tries to manage the button, and when he realizes her hand is trembling, he forsakes the vow he made to himself. "Emma?" he breathes, looking up. Her eyes snap to his, and a cold shock runs down his spine.

Hers are stark and remote, a distance in them he's never seen before. He's no idea what's caused it, and he hasn't the faintest notion how to bridge it.

* * *

The _Kestrel_ was a fine vessel, lovely and quick, with clean lines and an agile helm. At least, according to both Killian and her father, the latter of whom had always had a fondness for all things nautical. He'd gifted that fondness to his daughter with maritime decorations for her room, swashbuckling stories to send her to sleep, and every inspection tour on which he could smuggle her away from her studies, and so her steps were just as sure on the deck of a rolling ship as if she were on the castle's solid floors.

This time, there was no storm to weather, the vessel riding at anchor along the docks on a fine, clear day. She'd found Killian on the quarterdeck, standing straight and tall in his uniform, filling it out as if he'd been born to wear it. She vividly remembered his first, the way he'd been all but swimming in it, how Liam had teased him that he just _might_ grow into it. Perhaps. Eventually.

There's no question that he had, and admirably.

His back was to her as she approached, one hand resting on the rail. His thumb rubbed distractedly over a deep nick in the wood, the gap only somewhat filled by a fresh coat of paint.

"What happened there?" she asked in greeting, and he turned to her with a grin as bright as the summer sun overhead.

"Boarding axe," he said, and shook his head, disapproval stealing over his face. "Terrible insult to inflict on such a fine lass. Fortunately, Mister Smee taught the ruffian some manners."

"You left that to Mister Smee? I'd expect you to dole out such a lesson yourself," she chided. She made a quick, covert study to see whether he was hiding an injury that would have caused him to miss such a fight, but he appeared hale and hearty.

Decidedly so, and she felt her cheeks warm when taking in the lines of his body. She dropped her chin, hoping he'd attribute any blush she might be sporting to the heat of the day.

"Alas, I had a prior engagement with three of the miscreant's fellows," he said, bringing her attention back from its impertinent wandering. "The whole lot of them needed to learn that bad form will not be tolerated aboard this ship, as--" He caught himself mid-sentence and chuckled, shaking his head. "I nearly said, 'as long as I'm captain,' but as there's only hours left in my tenure, that holds very little weight, I suppose." His eyes twinkled in the sunlight, and Emma couldn't help smiling back, for when he was happy, everything about him grew more vivid, and the world around him paled in comparison.

It had ever been thus for her, since Emma was old enough to want more from a boy than just a partner with whom to climb trees and explore forests. Perhaps inevitably, Killian had been her first crush--older than she, brave and daring and clever, with tales to tell and a flair for the telling. At first, they'd all been second-hand stories of Liam's, until Killian became a midshipman and began to earn his own, collecting souvenirs of his travels to share with her afterwards. 

She'd always loved him as a friend, but somewhere along the way, an avid desire for his stories became an avid desire for his company in other ways. She'd desperately tried to keep her more-than-friendly feelings under wraps, for fear that the ease between them would turn stilted and awkward if he learned the true depth of her affection--or worse, that he would forsake her presence completely.

He'd always teased her, and she'd secretly adored that about him--that he saw her as a person more than a princess, that he seemed to see _her_ and not her tiara. But of late, their closeness had been as much torturous as enjoyable--his gallantry had meant a rapid rise through the ranks, bringing him a well-deserved acclaim. But that acclaim would undoubtedly take him from her, as others began to notice the fine qualities she'd always seen in him.

It surely wouldn't be long before he found someone to make a life with, someone whose claim on his time would supercede her selfish attentions. She was certain she wouldn't survive the pain unless she began to harden her heart now, to brace for the blow that was destined to fall.

But how hard it was to remember to take that step back when she saw him happy and in his element. She wanted that happiness for him, always, even if it was not to be with her. When he glowed with contentment like this, though, she was but a moth, doomed to be burned, but helpless to resist the allure of the flames. 

Staring, she was staring, and with difficulty, she tore her gaze away. "You'll miss her, won't you," she asked, looking around at the well-maintained vessel, with her cheery colors and her disciplined crew. They were well enough trained to continue their work despite her presence, unofficial as her visit was, and she was grateful for that, as she was for any moment in which she could pretend her life was as anyone else's.

"Aye," Killian said. "She's a sweet lass, with a heart for adventure." He looked across the harbor, to a ship moored at one of the larger slips. "But the _Jewel_ is a grand lady indeed, and I'm honored to have the chance to woo her."

"It won't be the same, though," Emma said, and wrapped her palm around one of the wooden stays that lined the rail, to keep herself from fidgeting.

"No, of course not." He stepped closer to her, setting his hand on the next stay and mirroring her stance. "But change is a part of life, wouldn't you say? And different isn't always a bad thing."

_But I can't imagine_ wanting _anything different._

"So--captain, commanding the flagship of the fleet." She forced herself to look up at him, all of her elocution lessons helping to stiffen her spine and settle a mask of calm over her face. "You'll be an indisputable catch for anyone in the realm."

"And the realm does have many avid anglers," he said wryly. He reached up to scratch behind his ear, and gave her a tentative smile. "But perhaps one of them has already set her hand to landing me."

And, oh, for all the foresight she'd been lauding in herself, she was still unprepared for the blow when it struck home.

_Roll with it_ , she remembered from countless hours spent training with Mulan, though she'd never imagined needing those lessons outside of a fight. _Do not let the pain control you_.

She lifted her chin, and kept her breathing even, though a hollow pit now yawned in her chest. "Someone worthy of you, I hope," she said, and though her voice was steady, her hand ached with the death grip she had on the stay.

Killian shook his head, his eyes never leaving Emma's, though a flush was now creeping into his cheeks. "On the contrary. I'll have to strive to be worthy of her."

It made indignation blaze up in her--of _course_ he'd be worthy of any woman, how could he ever think otherwise?--but she made an effort to master it, for it wasn't her place to interfere. "Will... she be at the ball tonight?"

She tried to convey nothing more than polite interest, but wasn't at all certain how well she succeeded.

"I very much hope so, Your Highness." He reached up again, rubbing the back of his neck this time--a quirk of his that she'd always delighted in, before, but now she felt like an outsider intruding on something private, and she'd yet to even meet the woman. He ducked his head, looking shyly at her from under his brows, and added, "In fact, I'm counting on it."

The gentle bobbing of the _Kestrel_ was starting to make her feel ill, though she'd never been subject to seasickness before. "Then I won't keep you from your preparations," she said, and turned hastily away, before he could see her distress. "I'm sure you wish to look your best for her."

Her steps faltered a bit as she crossed back to the gangplank to disembark, her equilibrium all but gone, and she'd never felt so unsteady on the deck of a ship.

* * *

It's a night that Killian's been anticipating for what feels like his whole life, but he can scarcely fix on the moments of it, the details blurring even as he tries to take them in.

All he knows for certain is that Emma is in deep distress, and the epaulettes that she fastened with shaking fingers seem to have taken on the weight of that suffering, sitting heavy on his shoulders as he takes dances with ladies of the court. He's been something of a poor partner, his eyes drawn always to the flash of red that marks Emma's place in the ballroom. She's been offering a turn about the floor to each newly promoted officer, as is the custom of the realm, and each motion she makes is nearly flawless; he'd have no idea anything was wrong, had he not known her so long as he has.

He remembers each dance they've shared as he rose through the ranks, often having such a time that laughter sent them stumbling out of step. Tonight will be very different, it seems, but perhaps he can ease whatever is so troubling her.

"You seem distracted, Captain Jones," he hears as he lingers near the refreshments with an untouched cup of wine, and he starts at the fact that the queen has managed to approach him without his notice.

"My apologies, Your Majesty," he says, and hastily sets the cup aside to bow his head to her.

"Dance with me," she says, in that tone of impish command that is singular to Snow White, and he offers her his elbow without delay, escorting her to the floor.

It's plain to see where Emma comes by her grace, not to mention her generosity; her mother follows his lead with the kind of poise that led to her acclaim as the fairest in the land. (A title Killian privately believes has been ceded to her daughter, but he'll never say such a thing aloud.)

With a frankness that might surprise him if he knew Emma less well, the queen looks him in the eye and asks, "Killian, what's wrong with my daughter?"

He shakes his head without missing a step. "I'd hoped you'd be able to tell me, milady," he replies. He can't help but glance away when he catches sight of Emma's dress through the other dancers, though it's a terrible insult to the queen. "When last I saw her, I'd thought we'd parted on good terms."

Snow seems to take no offense at his lapse in attention, though the thoroughness with which she's studying his face is decidedly unnerving. "She's only ever been this distraught about _you_ , you know. When you'd done something so inconsiderate as to take a fever, or an injury."

"The best of my knowledge, milady, I've offered her no such insult," he says softly, conflicting emotions robbing his voice of its strength. As pleased as he is to know that he carries a special place in Emma's heart, the notion that he might have unwittingly caused her current unhappiness is disturbing indeed.

"Hmm." The queen holds his eye as he leads her through a turn. "Then it's a good thing your dance with her is coming up," she says, smiling at him gently, though not without an edge of steel to remind him that she is both mother and ruler. "I expect you to remedy this, Captain," she says, placing an emphasis on his new title that is somehow both proud and warning.

"I'll not rest until I do," he says, and she nods acknowledgement of the gravity in his tone.

The song comes to an end, and he bows deeply. Snow draws him up by his hands, and surprises him with a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck," she whispers, and he ducks his head, a shyness he'd thought himself long past warming his face.

He's still bemused, a smile curling his lips and his fingers brushing over his cheek when Emma finds him. When she meets his eyes, she looks startled, but it vanishes quickly under a mask of regal indifference. "Congratulations on your promotion, Captain Jones. Would you care to dance?"

"Nothing would please me more, Your Highness," he says in all honesty, but the grin he gives her is met only with a wintry smile.

Her form is precisely, almost painfully correct, the playful intimacy they usually share at these functions nowhere to be found, and his unease only grows.

"I see the chefs have once again found mutton to be a challenge," he tries, but their old joke falls as flat as the look in her eyes.

"I'm sorry it's not to your liking," she says. Before he can try another tack, she continues, in a polite, distant tone, "Is your lady friend here?"

He blinks at that. "I only have eyes for the princess," he says, wondering whether she's playing an odd sort of game, and if he's meant to play along. "Who is, by the way, simply stunning," he adds softly, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

She startles, her hand jerking in his hold, and he catches an instant of pain in her eyes before she looks away, visibly withdrawing into herself again.

"Emma, what is it?" he whispers, trying to catch her eye. "What's the matter, love?"

She shakes her head, her lips pressed together in a tight line. "I'm not the one you should be dancing with," she whispers back. "And don't call me that," she finishes, so quietly that he's not sure he heard her correctly.

"What I _should_ be doing is finding out what has my princess so upset," he says. "Talk to me, please," he says--nearly begging, but he truly doesn't care at this point.

"I can't do this, I'm sorry," she mutters, and slips out of his grasp. "Thank you for the dance, Captain. Congratulations again on your promotion." Her voice is a hollow shell of itself, her eyes swimming with hurt. "If you'll excuse me, I'm not feeling well."

She makes her way quickly from the great hall, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her bearing is purely regal, but he's known her too long not to see that under that poise, she's feeling very much lost and alone.

He recognizes that, for it's the same way he feels himself.

* * *

Emma's hidden under her covers and curled around the ache in her stomach that's kept her from sleep when she hears raised voices outside her door.

She'd retired quickly, pleading illness to keep from having to talk to anyone--she'd done her duty, anyway, honoring the new officers, so she's not likely to get in trouble for fleeing the party. Granny Lucas had ushered her to bed and set herself up in the antechamber to keep everyone out.

She can think of no more formidable protector, though it sounds as if her determination has met its match.

"I will not!" Granny says sharply, as ferocious as ever where Emma is concerned. "The princess needs her rest. Come back at something approaching a reasonable hour of the morning."

"Please," she hears--and it's Killian, sounding more ragged than she's heard him before. "Please, I'm not asking you to wake her, just--leave her the note. Somewhere she'll see it when she wakes."

She's padding across the floor before she thinks about it--didn't even bother with her slippers, and the rugs aren't quite enough to temper the chill of the flagstones. She pulls the door open, and gets a dim satisfaction from watching the both of them jump at the sudden creak. "It's okay, Granny," she says, holding out her hand. "I'll take it."

She feels as if the cold is creeping up to settle in her very bones, but right now she welcomes the numbness.

Granny gives Killian a murderous glare, but Emma keeps her hand out until Granny snatches up the note and passes it to Emma.

She tries not to look at him before swinging her door shut again, but fails in her resolve. The burning, desperate look in his eyes haunts her as she slips back into bed. 

She turns up the lamp on her bedside table before unfolding the note. Part of her would rather set the thing aside, or possibly even burn it unread, the better to stave off any more anguish. But she knows, deep down, that she's made this mess herself, set her heart on something she could never have, and punishing him for her own mistakes is terribly unfair.

His handwriting is a little messy, hurried, and she lets the guilt sink in, for she's not the only one she's hurt.

_Emma,_

_I'm so sorry, for pressing the issue at the ball tonight--it was neither the time nor the place to discuss matters of import._

_I don't know what I've done to upset you, but I beg you to give me the opportunity to make amends. I can't bear for us to be at odds with one another._

_Yours, as always,_

_Killian_

She stares at his name, tracing the letters with a fingertip, just as she'd done a week ago in her father's study.

Elsa had sent along a letter with the packet of reports on Arendelle's fishing trade with Misthaven, and in between catching Emma up on Anna and Kristoff, the queen had inquired about Emma's "dashing young man." She'd had the letter on her mind while leaving the stack of reports on her father's desk, and that's when she'd seen it--the admiralty's list of officers to be promoted. Unerringly, her gaze had been drawn to one name in particular.

Her father had caught her staring down at his name, and had wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I bet you're proud of him, huh, kiddo? Once his battlefield promotion came through, Killian became the youngest sailor ever to make captain in our navy."

"Yeah, Dad," she'd said, and then taken her leave before he could see that she was suddenly at war with herself.

Seeing his name, and the word "Captain," had instantly transported her back to the past--to a conversation they'd had during his first leave from the navy. Proud and animated in his new uniform, he'd paced in front of her writing desk, telling her stories of nearly every second of every day, it seemed.

She'd pretended to be working on a speech for her father's birthday, but really, she was just admiring how Killian looked with his head held high and excitement flushing his cheeks.

"Someday I will make captain, Emma," he said, nearly tripping over his words. "And I'll command the finest ship in the fleet."

She set aside her pen and folded her hands under her chin, giving him a well-practiced, exaggerated pout. "Are you so eager to sail away from me? To have adventures in far-away places?"

"My princess will always command me," he said, sweeping into a bow so exaggerated that it made her giggle. He grinned at a job well done, but then an air of solemnity had smoothed the humor away from his face. "But when I'm a captain, and in charge of my own fate…" He looked at her then, so seriously that it took her breath away. "That's when everything will change, Emma."

It sounded like a promise, and she'd never known him to break one.

She'd almost forgotten that day, but the neat, officious penmanship on that list had brought it back to her, and she'd felt as if the ground under her feet were shifting.

Killian had changed the very course of his life through hard work and determination, no longer the orphan in threadbare clothes who'd snuck into the castle after his brother. And Emma...

Emma could no longer hold him back from living his life with her own selfish dependency.

A damp spot appears on the parchment, threatening to smear his name, and Emma hastens to wipe away her tears. He deserves to know that he's done nothing wrong, and more, he deserves to forge his own path. 

_Without_ having to assuage the histrionics of his childhood friend.

* * *

She finds him by the scrying pool, where the enchanted stone inlay along the bottom shows a view of Razortooth Point, a gift from a maritime kingdom whose queen is friends with her mother. It's very late--or very early--but she knew he'd be here, despite the hour.

Barring the performance of his duties, he's always been there for her.

He's still in his uniform, so tall and handsome and noble of bearing that he takes her breath away, even half in shadow and lit only by the stars. Despite all her efforts, he still holds such power over her. He probably always will.

But his mussed hair and loosened cravat speak to his discomfiture--she's been too self-absorbed already this evening, putting her feelings ahead of his. It's shame that keeps her voice quiet as she calls out to him. "You should be sleeping off your revels, I think."

He's quick to face her, and there's not a trace of drink in the surety of his movements. "As if sleep could claim me with my princess so distraught," he says. It's terribly sweet, and that just makes her feel worse. He steps forward to meet her, reaching for her hands but hesitating before taking them--her own fault for making him so uncertain, and she closes the distance herself. He gives her a brief smile, a relieved twist of the lips, and squeezes her fingers. "Have I done something to offend you, Emma? Only name it, and I will remedy it."

"No," she says, and tries to swallow down the lump in her throat. It won't budge, and so she has to clear her throat before speaking again. "You've done nothing, Killian, truly. I took something out on you that I shouldn't have, and I'm the one who should beg your forgiveness."

"There's nothing to forgive." He brings her hands up, pressing a kiss to the back of each, and she's glad the darkness hides her blush. "Now, how may I help?"

And isn't that just like him, to offer his support without condition or reservation. It's one of the many things that she loves about him, but she can't let a desire for his support become a need to lean on him, and he mustn't let her keep him from becoming his own man, either.

With reluctance, she draws back her hands, folding her arms over her midsection and gripping her elbows. "You're too kind, Killian. But this is a difficulty that I must bear alone."

"How quickly you forget the past, Your Highness." He steps closer and ducks his head, a curious gleam in his eyes as he meets hers. "I seem to recall that a very serious boy once made a very serious oath to his princess that he would never leave her side, so long as she wanted him there."

"What I want... is for you to have the life you deserve, Killian. The life _you_ want." She turns from him, for she cannot bear to have him so tantalizingly near, and yet so far away. Over her shoulder, she says, "You're in such a good place--you're a captain now, it's what you've always wanted--and I... I won't hold you back from going after anything you desire, out of some--some obligation you might feel to me."

He's quiet for a long time, and when he speaks, his voice is low and troubled. "Are you sending me away, Emma?"

"No!" She can't let him suffer under another misapprehension, and so she turns back to him. "No, of course not, I'm just--I'm releasing you from any vows we made as children." She straightens her neck, trying to emulate her mother's posture. "Things have changed for... for both of us, and it's time we grow up."

She's been staring at the buttons that line his jacket, but she forces herself to meet his eyes, and it's almost her undoing. The tension in his face is withdrawn and wounded, and she longs to throw her arms around him.

But she _can't_.

"Killian, I…" She presses her lips together, drawing a deep breath through her nose that entirely fails to settle her. "I can't be allowed to keep you from pursuing whatever--or whomever--will make you happy," she says, the strength fading from her voice. "But I would never send you away," she finishes in a hushed tone, and damns the tears whose threat she feels in the burn behind her eyes.

He blinks at her, his mouth falling open.

Then he glances away, shaking his head, and huffs out a breath, the corners of his mouth curling up. 

"Oh, Emma," he says, taking a step closer, and she raises her chin.

"Killian," she says softly--a weak shadow of the challenge she usually makes in return, but it's all she can manage at the moment. 

"Emma," he says again, with a timbre to his voice that she doesn't recognize, but it sends a shiver over her skin. He studies her, one of those long looks that makes her feel warm and shy at the same time, tilting his head as if in thought. "So you think I should go after that which I desire?"

" _Yes_ ," she says, curling her fingers tighter about her elbows, holding herself together by sheer force of will.

He steps forward again and pries one of her hands free, straightening it out, only to run his fingertips over her skin with a delicate touch that makes her mouth go try. He turns her hand over, tracing the lines of her palm with his nails, and she can barely breathe. "And what if I find myself wanting a princess with a misguided sense of nobility?" he says, looking up at her. In the intimate darkness, his eyes are unfathomably deep, holding a longing that she can scarcely believe, for so well does it match her own.

"Killian..." she says, her voice a breathless whisper. It matters not, because all her thoughts have scattered like dry leaves in the wind before the look on his face.

"What if that princess is the only thing I've ever wanted?" he says, keeping her hand a willing prisoner and reaching out to twine his fingers gently around an errant curl escaped from her hasty braid.

"I know that's not true," she says, fixing on the only thing that makes sense. She reaches out to touch one of his epaulettes, glinting in the starlight as he moves, her hand shaking harder than when she fastened it on. "I know how badly you wanted this."

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving hers. "What I wanted was to be worthy of you, love." 

His expression is utterly, nakedly honest, filled with a fondness that softens every line of his face. It's a look, she realizes, that she's caught a glimpse of time and again, but she's never--

"This is madness, utter madness," she says, though she's too weak to make herself pull away. Something bubbles within her--disbelief, shock, elation, a mixture of all three and more, and it's making her breath a tremulous, uncertain thing. She stares at him, outrage surging to the fore. "You never said anything!"

He laughs, though it's an uneven laugh, and his face is itself a study in mixed emotions. "I never thought I needed to, love, as much of a nuisance as I always made of myself."

"You--" She blinks at him, trying desperately to right the world that he's tilted off its axis. "I'm the one who dragged _you_ around the castle while Liam had all those strategy sessions with my father!"

He smiles, though it's a bit sheepish, and his hand twitches, as though he wants to scratch behind his ear. "I've a confession to make, love," he says, and then chuckles nervously. "Well, two. The first is that Liam wasn't _summoned_ before the prince as often as you believe."

"What?"

She swears the tips of his ears are turning red, though the darkness that's hiding her blushes is doing the same for him. "When his younger brother missed his playmate too fiercely, Liam would merely stop in to pay his respects to the prince." Killian shrugs, and adds, "A flimsy excuse, and one your father saw straight through, but Liam always brought with him a stock of stories and a fine bottle of rum." He blinks. "Though I assure you, Liam's rise to admiral was entirely on his own merit, and not based on his friendship with your father."

He surprises her into a smile, though her head still spins at the idea that he wanted to see _her_ , too, just as much as she wished for his company. "And the second confession?" she asks softly.

He steps back and shrugs off his jacket, and Emma feels her eyebrows shoot up. He gives her a smile while unbuttoning his right cuff, and then closes with her again as he rolls up his sleeve. "If there were anyone else I wanted, Emma, they would perhaps be unhappy at the story behind this."

There's a tattoo on the inside of his forearm, one she's never seen before. She turns his arm up to catch the starlight, and sucks in a breath when she sees the design.

It's the rose of the royal naval crest, but the emblem this one is backing is the outline of a swan.

She'd been so young, wandering the gardens with a new friend, when she'd heard the most pitiable noise coming from under a hedge. She'd fed the lost cygnet and gained a feathered shadow for three straight weeks, until her mother had put her foot down, most gently, and suggested the foundling would be better off in the garden pond with the others of its kind. 

She'd visited every day, until she was certain that the mother who'd adopted her was feeding and caring for her, and she'd clung to the hand of a kind, gentle boy as she prayed that the baby would never find itself alone again.

It's the same hand she's holding now as she runs her fingers along the curving black lines of the tattoo. His hand flexes in hers, reminding her that she's touching him rather intimately, alone and late at night, and she feels her face grow warm. "Did it hurt?"

"To be honest, it may have," he says, low, and close to her ear. "But if it did, your has touch wiped all trace of the sting from my memory."

Her face is burning now, but when he tips her chin up with two fingers, she doesn't resist. "There is change, Emma, there is always change, but there are also constants in the world, stories set down in indelible ink." He gives her a soft smile, but his eyes are more somber than she's ever seen him. "The sea may churn, and storms may toss about the mightiest vessel as if it were a child's plaything," he says quietly. "But the sun will always rise in the east, the North Star will give guidance to lonely sailors..." He looks down, and she follows his gaze, to where he's turning his hand over in hers, pressing them together, palm to palm. "... And you shall be loved beyond life itself, if only you close your hand around what's offered to you."

She lets a shaky breath pass over her parted lips. "You always did have a way with words."

"And you always were a stubborn lass who needed to see proof to believe them." He runs his free hand down her other arm, drawing that hand up with his own, as well. "The ink is enchanted, Emma. That mark will never fade." 

She looks back up at him then, and somehow, here in the dark, everything she's been missing, everything she's been afraid to look for out of fear of finding it absent, is clear to see on his face. "You see, I never allowed my future queen to drag me around," he murmurs, keeping her gaze captive with his own. "Instead, I happily followed the lead of my dearest love."

Slowly, still having trouble believing this isn't the most vivid dream she's ever had, she threads her fingers between his, clasping his hands tight. "You know, I think my parents were pleased about that serious boy having a sobering effect on a headstrong princess."

He leans forward and down, until his forehead is pressed against hers. "And I believe Liam was relieved to see a carefree princess teaching that serious boy how to be a bit more light-hearted," he says, a tremulous smile curving up the corners of his lips.

"Captain Jones," she says, and has to moisten her lips, gone suddenly dry, "would you consent to be courted by the crown princess of Misthaven?"

His eyes seem fixated on her mouth for a moment, but then he looks back up at her, humor dancing in his eyes. "Your Highness, I believe we've been courting for more than a decade."

"In that case, this shouldn't seem too forward," she says, and closes the distance between them, catching his lips in a kiss.

It's a moment she's dreamt of countless times, but reality proves her imagination to be a poor prophet indeed. His mouth is soft against hers, his kiss delicate and cherishing, and a tide of warmth rushes over her, dizzying in its intensity.

When he pulls back--but not far, for she can feel his breath on her face--it takes her a moment to open her eyes. A rush of giddiness makes her sway where she stands, and it's chiefly his grip on her hands that keeps her upright.

He seems to be in no better shape, spots of color high on his cheeks that she can make out even in the dimness, and his eyes, when he opens them, are dazed--but so very happy. "You've no idea how long I've wanted to do that," he murmurs, and she breathes out a laugh.

"I might have some notion," she says, and gives in to the urge to lean into him, letting him gather her close. 

She rests her forehead against his neck and heaves a sigh that flutters the tails of his cravat. "I'm so sorry I ruined your night, Killian," she says, her fingers tight about his waist. 

He tightens his hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "Utter nonsense, darling." His voice is rich with something like joy, making her tilt her head back to look up at him. The sheer delight in his eyes can be met only with a smile, and the grin he gives her in return lends a ridiculous sort of truth to his words as he says, "I've never had a better one."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Riptide" by Vance Joy.


End file.
